The Story of a story
Have you ever seen a saree, hanging out to dry on the terrace of that old government quarters building, gently waving in the breeze? As a child, I used to accompany my grandmother to the terrace to hang the bigger clothes like sarees and bedsheets. Once she had finished, I would stand in between her synthetic sarees, inhaling the fresh detergent smell and feeling the softness of the fabric against my skin. I would let my fingers glide across the saree lightly, savouring its softness. As a four-year-old, this was amongst my happiest moments then. It was peaceful, it was soft!! What more did I want?
The saree wasn’t a thing of great beauty. It was a normal synthetic saree, pale orange with a continuous pattern of flowers and leaves, all through the length of the fabric. But it was home —
Home to the endless summer days when we went for walks in the park. I would insist on sitting the swing again and again but be told sternly that I should not be selfish and should let the other children have a go as well. On the way back everytime, I would demand a flimsy toy kitchen set from the vendor outside the garden, only to be told off again. Only twice were my endless demands met. I held on to those flimsy things till I was 14, maybe 15, till the house could not contain any more junk.
Home to my most favourite food — the flavourful balls made of warm rice, salt and ghee. They would line the inside perimeter of my steel plate when I would be good and finish eating my veggies and my reward for not watching TV while eating lunch.
Home to the thousand scribbles on the walls with crayons, where I drew my world full of tigers, dogs, houses, happy families, flowers, planes and who knows what else. And she would try to stop me, but I drew on, in gay abandon.
Home to endless hours of jigsaw puzzles, picking up the pieces of a man and woman and uniting them for their vacation on the beach. Picking up those pieces, putting them together was an ability I could scarcely use in my real life.
Home to the first happy festival I had celebrated. Opening my eyes in the morning only for them to be closed again and be led blindfolded to the pooja room, where I opened my eyes to a platter full of Vishukanni. The yellow Vishupoo, the sweet-smelling muskmelon, the tiny wad of 10, 20 and 50 rupee notes, the yellow rice. Money was welcomed, even as a child.
That saree is still around. It’s 30 years old now, I guess. The wearer, 79. But much like the saree’s moth-ball reeking countenance these days, the wearer, too, reeks of decrepitude. You see, she now has Parkinson’s Disease and probably, schizophrenia. So she hardly remembers her first grandchild, or as my family calls me, her ‘fourth’ child.
M 141/243, the house inside the Gulmohar tree filled government quarters, where these memories were made, are now but an etching, in my heart, in my soul, in my very bones.
Story story story story stary stary stary stary saary saary saree saree saree
You see, that saree was a story of the beginnings of a story, of my stories. Each strand is woven with a multitude of moments, of these tiny incidents, of the many falls. Now when I take a deep breath of the decrepitude, see her frail frame under the blanket barely making a bump, I see her smile at something. I know it isn’t my smile she’s reciprocating, but it matters not. But I do pray whichever world she is in every waking minute of her time, is as happy as the one she made for me then.
